


Not Bad

by emungere, louise_lux



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The events of this story are entirely fictional.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Not Bad

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this story are entirely fictional.

He dropped his phone the first time he tried, right into the damp puddle where his freshly showered feet had dripped on the tiles. The locker rooms at the club were nice, with polished wood benches. They were mostly bare now, of course. He’d been able to sit quietly for a little while.

He dried his hands and dabbed at the phone, then sat on the wooden bench with the thing in his hand and carefully pressed out his message. His eyes still felt sore, and his body, stretched and massaged, felt loose and half out of control. He couldn’t make his legs stay still, even now. He wondered why he was even doing this.

_Hi Roger. I lost. Sorry._

He sent it, then realised he hadn’t put his name at the end. Maybe Roger wouldn’t know who it was from. He wouldn’t know. Shit.

Rafa bit at his thumbnail, and then dropped the phone into his bag and pressed his hands over his face. Semi-finals wasn’t even bad. It was good. Still, he thought, taking his hands away and blowing out a half amused laugh at himself, the final would have been quite a lot better.

He put on a clean t-shirt and jeans. He checked his phone. The little screen was blank. That was--more disappointing than he liked to think about. He found clean socks and sat and put them on, then got his shoes. He looked up at approaching footsteps to see someone coming towards him down the length of the room. He’d know that walk anywhere.

He watched Roger come closer, saw his smile and his small, almost shy, little wave. He was dressed in practice kit. Of course, he would’ve been out on the courts at this time.

Rafa opened his mouth, but words failed to come out, not even just ‘Hello’ or ‘What are you doing here?’ He waved back, just a bare wriggle of his fingers.

Roger sat down beside him on the bench, quite close. Their knees touched. Rafa stared down at the shoe he was holding. The laces flopped over his knuckles, bright blue against his skin.

"You didn't need to apologize," Roger said, at last. His voice was very gentle.

All Rafa could think to say to that was, 'Sorry,' so he said nothing.

"You made the semis, Raf. That's not a thing to be sad about."

"You made the semis or the finals for everything ever this year almost, but they still say you losing it." Rafa's throat closed up on him after he got that out, and he wished it had done before he even started. That was horrible, to say a thing like that to Roger. To say it at all, let alone the day before the final. "Sorry," he choked out. "Don't mean that. To say it. Ah, god."

Roger didn't say anything at first, but when Rafa dared to look up from his shoe, Roger was smiling.

"Yes, I know. Twenty seven. Ancient, right? They say a lot of things. But there are guys who go their whole lives not even making it to the quarters. We're lucky, you know?"

Rafa nodded. He did know that. Talent made the difference. He'd never play like Roger no matter how hard he worked. He could only play like Rafa. Sometimes it was good enough. Sometimes it wasn't.

"I hear what you say yesterday. You want to play me in the final."

His hand was sort of numb and tingly. He realized he was holding onto the laces like a life preserver and made himself let go. The shoe dropped to the floor with a thud.

"I want to win the final," Roger said lightly. "But yeah. It's always more fun playing you."

"You mean that?" Rafa said. He stared hard into Roger's eyes, and Roger looked right back at him.

"Yes."

"Me more than anyone?"

"More than anyone."

Rafa ducked his head again, shuffling his feet against the floor. One sock soaked up a spot of water and made his big toe cold. Roger's knee was warm against his and bony. Rafa wished he had shorts on, too, that his skin was touching Roger's. He knew it was a bad thing to wish, especially now when Roger was trying to make him feel better.

He put his hand on Roger's knee anyway. "Thank you," he said.

Roger was still a moment and then put his arm around Rafa's shoulders. His hand curled over Rafa's upper arm and pulled him tight against Roger's side.

"I know it's bad," Roger said. "I know."

Somehow, that was what Rafa needed to hear. Toni had talked to him before he showered, told him everything would be okay, and he'd do better next year, and it was just one tournament. He knew all those things were true, but they didn't mean anything right now.

He let himself lean against Roger's side and felt Roger shift toward him to take his weight.

"Yeah. Is bad."

"And you can't stop thinking what you should've done better."

Rafa sighed and dropped his head to Roger's shoulder with a heavy thunk. He nodded.

"And you'll be too tired to sleep tonight, and too wound up anyway, and hungry, but you can't think about eating. And you've got nothing to do, and tomorrow the tournament will go on without you."

Rafa smiled a little. "You mind reader now, Rogelio?"

Roger rested his chin on top of Rafa's head. "Losing feels the same to everyone, whether you're Ryler DeHeart, or Rafa Nadal."

"Or Roger Federer."

"You know, they asked me how it felt to hear myself described as human."

Rafa had to laugh at that. "Robot Rogi, tennis machine."

The sound of his voice died away, gentled by the damp air. Everything was quiet. Roger didn't let go. His thumb rubbed little circles into Rafa's skin, and goosebumps started to march up Rafa's arms.

His heart thudded in his chest. It was a completely different feeling from the way it raced when he played. Heavier, like it was trying to pound out of his ribcage and fall into his stomach.

And he thought, all at once: _Roger likes to play against me more than anyone, and he came here because he knew I was sad, and he's touching me, and I could get away with it._

He breathed deep against Roger's neck, smelling salt-sweat and lingering aftershave from Roger's own collection, the Feel the Touch one. It was maybe bad that Rafa could distinguish between them, but not as bad as what he was about to do.

He put his hand on Roger’s cheek. Stubble rasped on the hard skin of his palm. He lifted his head and breathed against Roger’s mouth for a few heartbeats. Roger’s lips parted, and he made a little noise, soft and questioning. Rafa tilted his head and fit their mouths together.

He could almost taste Roger's shock. He could hear it, in his sharp sucked-in breath and the way he stilled. Rafa's heart felt like it was shaking his body; he was sure Roger must be able to feel it, and the throb of his blood. Rationally, this was almost definitely a very bad idea, but instinct was saying something else. Roger was still pressed close to his side, arm still heavy and warm on Rafa's shoulders, fingers now curling tight into Rafa's clothes. Rafa leaned into him, feeling almost unable to support himself. Roger stayed solid, but he gasped again, and his lips softened the slightest amount.

Rafa pulled back to look at him. He couldn't read Roger's expression.

"What--was that?" Roger said.

Rafa didn't have an answer. He shook his head and for a few panicked seconds he thought that this was it; Roger was going to pull away and leave and be sorry he'd ever tried to be friends. God.

"Rafa," he said, low and shocked, but his arm tightened.

He kissed Rafa back, just leaned in and did it. His lips were damp; he must've licked them. Rafa fisted a hand into Roger's t-shirt and moaned. Roger laid his hand along Rafa's jaw, lifting his chin and tilting it, and Rafa let himself be moved. Roger pushed the tip of his tongue between Rafa's lips, almost tentatively, and that was so sweet and shockingly hot. Roger's breath was warm against his skin, his lips warm too, and soft.

Their tongues touched and slid together. Roger made a pained sound in his chest and his arm tightened still further. This was really happening, Rafa thought. He'd made it happen. He reached up to touch Roger's hair. It was damp from practise, and very soft.

Roger's arm slid down to his waist, and Roger's hand pushed at Rafa's shirt. Roger touched his bare stomach, and a dozen little muscles there twitched under his fingers. The position was awkward, both of their bodies twisted up, knees banging into each other. Rafa wouldn't have stopped for anything. He hooked one knee over Roger's, and it let him inch just that much closer.

"Rafa," Roger said. His eyes were closed. He brushed his lips along Rafa's jaw and bit lightly at his neck.

Rafa shuddered all over and tipped his head back. "Yes, yes. That."

Roger's mouth was so hot, sucking just a little, cautious. Rafa gripped his hair tighter to hold him there, and Roger's nails dug into the soft skin of his stomach.

Rafa swallowed hard. Everything was in his head at once; press conferences and the flight home and the shots he'd missed and the way Roger played, and Roger's breath on his neck.

He pulled at Roger's shirt suddenly, urgently. "This, off. Now."

He was aware of a brief pass of cloth between Roger's mouth and his skin, and then there was no more separation, and he got to touch Roger's bare shoulders, too. It was almost more than he could cope with. They were very broad and hard and had tiny, almost invisible freckles scattered across the very top where the sun hit them.

Rafa felt like he must be shaking quite badly, but his hands looked steady. All the shakiness was inside. Roger kissed him again, tongue driving into his mouth with force.

He clung on. The skin on Roger's shoulders was a little rough, with small stray hairs here and there and the tiny bumps of the freckles. Under that, the flex of muscle. He ran his fingers down the long blade of Roger's shoulder, feeling it move under his touch. He stroked up and down, thinking about the power there and how it must move when Roger served. He imagined how it must look, up close.

Probably Rafa thought too much about tennis.

He stroked back up, to touch Roger's neck where the little curls of hair were, and felt him shiver and lean even closer. He was licking hard and deep into Rafa's mouth now, pushing at him. He took his hand away from Rafa's stomach and laid it on Rafa's thigh, in the middle. Heat from it soaked through Rafa's jeans straight to his skin.

Somewhere, from far away, a door slammed, and the world came crashing back. They broke the kiss. Roger drew in a huge breath and took his hands away from Rafa's body carefully, like he had to concentrate hard.

They stared at each other. Roger's lips were wet and, as Rafa watched, he licked them. He was searching Rafa's eyes, like he was trying to find something there.

"What--" Roger began.

"I just--want you to win," Rafa said, then had to stop to swallow around his dry tongue. Maybe Roger was going to get upset and play bad tennis because of this. Because of Rafa.

"God, Rafa--" He half laughed, and pressed his hand over his mouth. "I-- What was that?"

"Just play a good match." Rafa heard the rattle of the cleaner's trolley and then the sharp smell of disinfectant wafted on the air conditioning. "Don't think about this."

Roger stared at him some more, an intense scrutinising look, then touched his hand. "I can't just forget."

"You have to just play the tennis!"

"...Okay," Roger said, in a small voice.

"We'll talk another--time."

Rafa stood, and realised he was shaking like he had a fever. His knees were rubbery, and his stomach was clenched from adrenaline. He grabbed his kit and began to stuff things in his bag. Roger stood, too, and then stepped forward and caught him in a hug, both arms coming around his waist.

"Oh," Rafa said. He pressed his face to Roger's hair. "Oh."

"Be well," Roger said, against his ear. He stroked a hand through Rafa's hair.

"You too," Rafa said.

Roger squeezed him hard until Rafa thought his ribs might break, and Rafa closed his eyes and breathed into Roger's hair. When Roger stepped back, Rafa kept hold of his shoulders for a few long seconds. Roger was smiling at him.

"See you soon," Roger said.

"Hope so. Yeah."

"You're going home?"

Rafa nodded.

"Watch my match, yeah? Watch me win."

"For sure."

He watched Roger walk away, saw his steps falter and saw him touch his own mouth before he was out of sight. Rafa packed away his things and then left for home.


End file.
